


A is for ATOM

by SteelandSilk (SilkCut)



Series: Cherik Alphabet Theme Challenge [1]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Disturbing Themes, Family Feels, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Nazis, Slurs, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilkCut/pseuds/SteelandSilk
Summary: Two boys, one privileged while the other persecuted, learn to cope with the horrors of their childhood.Although they remain continents apart with no knowledge of one another, these boys are far closer in heart and strength, which they would soon discover one fateful night decades from now.





	A is for ATOM

* * *

 

 

 

 

**ATOM**

 

 _._  
_._

_the smallest part of any material that cannot be broken_

_✹_

_uncut; indivisible_

_._  
_._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Charles looked at death during a drizzling afternoon in Westchester County and—for the most part—was left feeling rather unfazed.

It was almost like he couldn’t be bothered with the ceremony of it all. A dull sort of complacency lacking any usual traces of grief remained etched on his features while the men lowered the coffin on the ground.

His mother had chosen a costly oak coffin to bury her husband in, and its smooth surface gleamed ever pristine against the raindrops and dirt. Something about the way the wet soil clung to the edges of the coffin as it slid down made Charles feel like washing his own hands; like he wanted to be clean.

He focused on that insignificant urge at the moment because it did wonders to keep his mind preoccupied, helping him to ignore the dozens of other people behind them to witness this burial. They were loud inside their cages no matter the deception of their shared, outward silence. And Charles simply didn’t want any of their stories for there was no more room in his already cluttered mind.

It's hard to be surrounded by living beings everywhere and know who they are without the need for conversation. The ocean of their innermost thoughts persisted in its vastness, and the stronger the waves, the more vexing it was for Charles to swim the currents. He figured out so early on that people were uncharted waters dipped in their own unique tales of horror and hope, and that there had been many times when he drowned and discovered what else could lurk under the seas.

Telepathy almost drove him insane this way. Odd hours of being under its spell would even render him useless for a day or two. Sharon, his mother, did everything to keep his ‘affliction’ under lock and key, going so far as to have him home-schooled last year while she made a few specialists prescribe him medications that’ll keep him sedated.

The only reason she hasn’t had him institutionalized was because it would bring scandal and besmirch the Xavier name. But given the extremes she often went through to delay the growth of his powers, she might as well have already isolated him from the world.

He willed himself to focus again on the consoling quiet of the dead man at his feet. It was better than dwelling on his impoverished relationship with Sharon.

Meanwhile, the elderly priest stood across from the flock of guests, droning on and on about some holy scripture.

The boy paid close attention to the words uttered until a polite, half-smile crossed his lips. Charles thought that the passage about finding peace didn’t suit the dead man in question, for his stepfather was anything but a pacifist.

In fact, Charles was relieved—maybe even joyous—that he’s dead.

 

 

 

 

✦✹✧

 

There was too much death that surrounded so many families in those months.

What a hollowed thing too, this death, and how it reduced everyone into nothing more but shambles of bones and dirt.

Of some miraculous feat, Erik and his own family escaped detention for four days. It was him, his mother and grandfather, and three younger cousins (a boy named Gerhard with his twin sisters Johanna and Klara) who were left to traverse the more remote tunnels under the city as the murderers marched exactly above them. They scurried away like rats, armed with nothing but prayer. In time, fear will gradually teach them to be unmindful of hunger and fatigue.

A fate more gruesome awaits if they ever, for even a second of false reprieve, allow their collective strength to falter. Erik was twelve, and he just vaguely understood why they were being hunted to begin with. All he knew was that the boys in school have jeered at him for months now and often called him with names which his mother warned him not to listen to or ask questions about.

He looked at said woman now with apprehension and concern. They were just about to walk into a particularly dank sewer, but it was too dark to see anything. Erik could tell by the way his mother and grandfather whispered harshly to one another that they can’t make a decision whether or not to cross or just stay hidden on this spot.

Meanwhile, the children grew restless as Klara huddled close until her forehead touched Erik's abdomen where she began to sob softly against. He was the oldest of the four (his boy cousin only two weeks away from his ninth birthday while the girls were six), which was why he felt the need to take charge and gather them to him now.

He stretched his arms as if he meant to create a cocoon and keep them safe inside his embrace forever. Erik knew that he could not, but his foolish attempt at hope should at least mean something to them, here in the ever-deepening dark.

 

 

 

  
✦✹✧

 

Water poured down in droplets from the sky, cascading across the tops of black umbrellas that had gathered around like a clump of mushrooms above the open grave. Charles and his mother shared a red umbrella between themselves. Its shade was a blotch of something angry standing out amongst the dark.

The Xaviers looked like an odd pair indeed, with the mother half-scowling as if staying next to her son was the last thing she wanted to do. The boy knew, even without the aid of telepathy, that this was true. Sharon had mistrusted her own child ever since he used his powers unwittingly on her that day.

But he was only five then, though it made little difference to his mother.

A few people were throwing flowers and soil over the casket by now, and all that Charles could do was to wait for Sharon to do something—anything—so she could have the proper goodbye she had always deserved. He didn’t have to look at her to know precisely what she felt.

The emotion thrummed alive in her very fingers that clutched the umbrella's handle, especially since Charles' own were wrapped around a spot just mere inches below hers. Hours ago, he had resigned himself to close all channels in his mind before he went to this funeral. The buzzing hive of feigned sentiments or heartfelt condolences of those who came here would only distract him from his own private thoughts, and so he put enough blocks in his mind to quiet down his telepathy.

The same practice could not be applied with his mother, of course. The woman next to him looked older than her thirty-plus years, and her lips slightly quivered whilst those arctic blue eyes stared disbelievingly down the casket. It wasn’t just a sense of duty which made him want to seek a way to reach her out of her own grief, but more so because of a desperation to make said woman aware that he was just there. In spite of the terrible mistakes that had happened in the past, all that mattered in this moment was that he was still her son, and they need each other.

Tentatively, he let his fingers brush against her knuckles as if to remind her of this singular truth. It was only after a full minute of silence when Sharon acknowledged the boy for the first time today.

Her gaze shifted to his hand now resting above hers on the umbrella's handle. She whispered to him, “Oh, Francis...”

(She had always called him with his second name, but not nearly out of affection as he would like.)

The young boy may have been holding his breath as he anticipated for the outpour of her emotions to wash over him. And he would be their beaker and eagerly store them all inside him if it meant lessening their dangerous weight upon his mother’s soul. So he stood there in all his eleven years, ever brave and hopeful, as he waited for Sharon to finally open up herself to him.

But instead, she rebuffed him yet again with another cold, harsh stare. She then slid her hand a few more inches above the handle and away from his grasp as she said, “What did I tell you about touching me?”

When that wasn’t enough, she gritted her teeth and added in haste, “And you better have closed your mind, Francis…” she trailed off and glanced over her shoulder before glaring back at him, “…these are respectable people. I will not have you inflict them with your…”

A narrowing of her eyes suggested she was struggling with the word to use that will not only describe his ‘affliction’ but also convey her aversion against it. At last she settled with: “...freakishness.”

And that’s how the woman who birthed Charles and should have loved him unconditionally further became a stranger.

 

 

 

 

✦✹✧

 

Desperate times had driven their family to dangerous measures, but there was no harm in relying on the kindness of strangers as well.

Four days ago, they escaped being drafted by the authorities when a neighbor—who was also a sympathiser to their plight—hid and drove them inside a carriage. They followed a route that took them to the next city where they then circumvented checkpoints using falsified documents Erik's uncle acquired for the family before he was inevitably captured.

He remembered that his mother had worn this red hat, a favorite of hers. She managed to hold onto it even when they had to abandon what little possessions they have left. They had to pack light after all, with only the simplest of provisions to keep them alive until they leave Germany for good and never look back.

Now, Erik has always liked that color on her. He also wanted to cheer her up that night and so he told his mother that she looked very pretty with that hat. She smiled at least, but something about its weariness just made it unnatural on her face. It made him look down at his faded black boots as if ashamed upon witnessing it.

That was when his grandfather seized the hat all of a sudden. He scolded his mother next for even putting it on, since the bright color would only call attention to their already suspicious party. Nonetheless, he tucked the hat under his garments for safe keeping, probably because he noticed how sad his daughter-in-law became after he had reprimanded her.

“You can wear it again once we get out of Europe, Ruth,” he reached to clutch at her hand. She didn’t squeeze back exactly, though she did stare into his eyes as he went on, “America will grant us sanctuary. It is the only place as of now that’s untouched by the war. I know someone who will provide us means to get into the lower quarters of the first ferryboat headed to New York. From there, we can worry about what the young'uns would eat.”

“Will they have cakes there, opa?” Johanna, the more communicative of the twins, chirped at the mention of food. Her dark hair was loose across her shoulders, a mess of untamed curls. It was a contrast to her sister's who had always worn her hair in a tight bun above her head.

Their grandfather offered a ready grin towards Johanna as he said, “All the sweets in the world until your tummy bursts, Jo…” and then he reached to poke the girl on the side. She scooted away with a squeal and swatted their grandfather’s hand away.

Klara and Gerhard followed suit and tickled Johanna until she slipped out of her seat and struggled to keep quiet. Neither adult stopped the children from enjoying themselves. Even Erik had to admit that the sound of strained laughter combined with the smiles of his cousins somewhat alleviated the weight of dread that had settled on his heart.

But Erik was old enough to see the traces of fatigue and trepidation on his mother and grandfather’s eyes as they shared a glance. It spoke volumes and reflected one another’s uncertainty for the future. For his part, the boy ended up sitting closer to the old man. His voice trembled when he requested, “May I keep Mama's hat for her instead?”

His grandfather narrowed his eyes but didn’t question the oddness of this moment. He merely retrieved the folded hat from the deepest pockets of his coat and then handed it to Erik.

Their hands lingered on one another for a few moments as the vibrant red of the hat etched itself between the gaps in their fingers. Without realizing it, Erik squeezed the old man's hand with such a strong desperation like he almost didn’t want to let go ever again.

Eyes now blurred with tears, he shut them tight until he felt the warm wetness flow down his cheeks.

“Erik,” he heard his mother speak next, though only faint, like an echo from miles away. He could not bear to see that forlorn sadness in her face again, so he dared not look.

Instead, when he at last opened his eyes, he stared right at his grandfather. The lines on his face looked more prominent than usual, something the boy has never noticed before. They resembled the ones that divided territories in a worn-out map, with the tiny moles and freckles that served as islands.

These islands all looked familiar and lonesome to Erik somehow. He supposed they might as well have been the many homes he had growing up, where a large, extended family blessed with so many aunts and uncles and cousins gather to celebrate, pray, mourn and endure the years together.

And now, there were only six of them left.

His grandfather's hand, so sturdy even with old age, remained wrapped around his own. There was a tenderness in how he held the boy; the prelude of a goodbye.

“Be strong, Erik,” the old man raised their clasped hands so he could graze the boy's knuckles against his lips. A portion of the red hat that touched his grandfather’s chin also caught some of the tears the old man shed.

“You have to be stronger than the rest of us.”

 

 

 

 

✦✹✧

 

Charles supposed there was strength in how he endured all these years.

Isolation can do a lot of things to a child especially one who happened to be so gifted yet with no means to showcase his talents to anyone willing to spare him the time.

But in those early years, Charles was never even made to feel as if his exceptionality was a positive thing. Rather, it was something to be horrified of and hide from the world. The worst part was that he believed he was indeed ‘cursed’.

He could still recall vividly the first time his telepathy manifested itself. It was the night after Brian Xavier, his father, met his fate in a brutal accident inside the nuclear lab facility he worked in. Charles remembered waking up from a horrible dream when he heard the sirens blaring outside the mansion. Somehow he knew that something awful happened to his father. There was a sensation in his mind that felt empty, akin to losing a limb; a live part of you that can never be put back in ever again.

Sharon was inconsolable for days after she had to identify the charred remains of her husband’s body. Charles was fraught too, having to witness the woman he loves suffer so much during what he learned was the bereavement period. The widow then turned towards drink and dabbled in ill-advised company since there was nothing else to do but fall apart, and her son—through the beginnings of his telepathy at a tender age—experienced it with her tenfold.

A week later, he reached out and spoke to her with his mind while she had been making him pancakes that morning. (Charles would forever cherish that memory as the last time his mother would do anything remotely maternal for him.) The result was bad; it was like she was drowned in a tub full of ice. That’s the sensation he picked up once their minds connected. It was genuinely the most terrifying thing both of them experienced.

And Sharon—despairing, small-minded and helpless Sharon—approached her son where he sat on a stool facing the table. Without a word, she hit him as hard as she could. The blow to his cheek sent him falling out of his chair. He was too shocked to react. After all, Charles was still embedded in his mother's mind and has never felt such a powerful concoction of confusion, rage and fear from an adult until that moment. So, he did what any five-year-old would do; he folded into a fetus position and sobbed without disturbing the parent who put him down there.

Soon, he’ll learn a few tricks to connect with the minds of others without their knowledge. But even with the mastery of such an ability, the boy will keep on feeling more alone than ever.

Back at the burial, a guest has approached Charles and his mother. He recognized her as one of the investors who had supported his father’s project before his untimely death. As this woman whispered something into his mother’s ear, he listened in using a mild burst of his telepathy.

The woman mentioned something about a conference in two days. What could be so pressing that it couldn’t wait before this burial wraps up? Charles didn’t like the fact his mother was being pulled away to yet another business-related meeting. But what if it has nothing to do with business?

What if Sharon has been abusing more than the occasional martini or scotch?

Should he skim this other woman's thoughts just to see what she could be hiding? Everyone has something to hide—a shameful secret, a haunting regret or some small crime they perceive larger than it truly was. Whatever it is, Charles can retrieve it so easily like he's only picking a word from a dictionary before filing it away for posterity.

He was going to attempt the same thing now, but got distracted when Sharon adjusted the umbrella so that she was covered under it more fully, which then left a hefty portion of Charles' left side to get drenched by the rain. His stepbrother Cain (who was driven here in a second car with a maid from the household), saw this as an opportunity to squeeze himself between Charles and Sharon all of a sudden. He half-shoved the boy away so he can say something to their mother.

Sharon was actually smiling kindly at Cain as she reached to pet his hair. On cue, the other boy wrapped his pudgy arms around her waist and buried his face on her diaphragm. Charles knew that his sobs were not as genuine as everyone else was led to believe, including the clueless Sharon herself.

“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. Don’t cry now,” the woman cooed. Her palm rubbed across the other boy's back. She acted as if Cain had been her real son all this time while Charles stood there just a foot away. He was now completely soaked, but nobody else in the funeral offered an umbrella or spared him a moment's notice. They were all either saying their prayers for the dearly departed or chatting in low voices about what happens to the Xaviers and their large estate, and if Sharon ever intends to marry for the third time.

He didn’t know whether it was the hypocrisy of the occasion or his mother’s blatant rejection, but it was nonetheless the final straw that pushed him too far. Charles chose not to retreat back into that sanctuary he created within the confines of his curse like so many times before. His eyes—the same color as her own yet much warmer—hardened all at once. Without uttering a word, he shifted his weight on one foot and dug the heel into the wet soil.

As he did so, anyone within a ten-feet radius (save for his mother and Cain) unravelled as if their thoughts were nothing more than pages viciously torn off from a book. Charles not only read and memorized the shameful secrets of the words they do not speak aloud but also implanted a few depressing insights of his own to poison their subconscious.

It had been so easy to do it because he felt more than justified to make everyone feel the way he had felt all these years. Charles was so lonely and different after all, and so battered and neglected in various ways. His stepbrother was no better. A quick survey of said kid's mind revealed that he has new, nefarious plans awaiting Charles at home. There wouldn’t be a more befitting way for Cain to honor his father’s legacy, he supposed.

Everyone in the funeral would have left feeling as if an important part of what made them who they are was gone forever, but at the last second Charles caught himself. His eyes traveled back to the coffin now being buried below a heap of mud and dirt. And with a startling clarity, he remembered how he learned of the true nature of violence through the man he once believed was family—and how much he didn’t want to become like Kurt Marko.

He knew he had to repair the damage he had spread among the funeral guests soon. And so, with a quiet prayer in his heart, the young telepath reached forward and cupped these people's minds so he could go inside them further. He was cautious about it, for human minds are delicate vessels that contain not only memories and random thoughts, but also everything else that makes people extraordinary.

Charles ignored his own history of pain for a moment and instead intimately examined the people here at the burial. And as he looked into the core of their unhappiness, he also started to read unfinished poetry in the veins; in the gaps that don’t always make sense; in the soft marrow of places within each person where everything is fluid and aching to be touched and known. It occurred to Charles that everyone hurts more than they care to admit, and how they can die within the quiet of their own gloom, often unheard and hopelessly unloved, as all the right words get lost in their heartaches.

It was too much for a young boy of eleven to understand that day, and he almost fell on his knees right there on his stepfather’s grave. His resoluteness to conceal the raging storms inside him was the only thing that kept him upright, but it was more than apparent that he was changed from knowing such truths.

Questions began to flood his senses: _Are all people such damaged goods, with some even worse than I am? Is this why I can read minds? Can I alone heal the wounds that no medicine or other cure can?_

For the first time, he learned exactly what it meant to have powers like this—

—and what it would mean for the safety of the people around him if he ever lost control of them.

 

 

 

 

  
✦✸✧

 

Those with any real power would never assault the weak or anyone deemed different in their eyes, yet in those terrible years, power was misused and weaponized for damning propaganda. Families were torn apart, only to be labeled as freaks and deviants. They were lined up in front of shooting squads or paraded in towns whilst hordes of bigots gnashed their teeth at them like rabid dogs.

This is what the world looked like above them, and if Erik knew then what awaited outside these tunnels, he would have euthanized the rest of his family. It would have been act of mercy because, at least, they could all be peaceful together in death.

After what seemed like hours, his mother and grandfather finally made a decision to cross the sewer that would lead to the other side of the city, which actually also takes them closer to the exit point. The gates were bound to be heavily guarded, and that in itself presented a terrifying difficulty.

They weren’t the first Jewish family in the entire country who are presently attempting to escape persecution after all, and as much as the adults tried to keep his younger cousins from knowing any more details of this hunt, the same could not be said for Erik. He had kept his ears peeled in the last two days for any news, which mostly consisted of unofficial reports on brutalities that assailed those who didn’t stand a chance to get away themselves.

He'd like to embrace the convenient delusion that these dark tales were nothing more but rumor and hearsay, but he saw for himself, not too long ago, those pale faces and unblinking eyes that belonged to a dozen uniformed men as they patrolled the streets of their old neighboorhood. If ghouls were ever real, then this was the era they reigned and ran amok.

There have been weeks prior in which a few riots had broken out in the streets already. They’ve begun as shouting matches over removing certain signage in stores until they quickly devolved into fisticuffs. But when the police came, they arrested the wrong people and let off the real instigators with nothing more but a feigned warning of a misdemeanor.

Erik will never forget the dread that came with losing a battle he had no idea he and his kin were even fighting. It happened in the shadows too, where the poison spread in people's minds and corroded any sense of right and wrong they may have. And then came the unveiling, the witch hunts. The one who declared himself supreme along with his cronies had found so many platforms to proclaim their collective disgust and vehemence; in the airwaves of radio broadcasts, in the ink of bold letters on newspapers. They printed out a sentiment so vile and acidic that it was a shock it didn’t melt the paper itself.

And the masses were swayed. They clamored to vilify a race they were so quick to cast out as enemies, blinded and enraged by falsehoods spoken frequently enough by a charismatic warmonger that they became uncontested convictions.

They were the very same words Erik had heard from the mouths of his own classmates as a few chased him down with brooms, claiming they wanted a cleanse through brimstone and fire.

It was around midnight four days ago when Erik had been startled awake by inexplicable noises coming from several distant, neighboring houses all at once. Things were breaking, colliding against walls and floors. And the screams—gutteral and pleading— might as well have punctured holes through anyone else who would have heard.

He had rushed down the staircase to follow after his uncle, Hermann and grandfather, but then he saw Gerhard hiding behind a couch in the living room and decided to attend to the younger boy first. His cousin was thinner than he remembered, or perhaps it was because he had put on a robe whose size was that for a fully-grown adult. Erik's first guess was that it used to be worn by his other uncle, Günter, who was Gerhard and the twins' father.

When Erik’s own father passed away three years ago, he had put on the man's shirts to bed for months as a way to cope with the loss. The scent of someone who will never be there ever again made his nine-year old self forget that awful truth at least while he slept. So he knew in an instant that Gerhard was doing the same, and with the rampage going on outside their home, it was almost like the cousins have lost their fathers all over again.

But when Erik held out his arms towards the younger boy to console him, Gerhard only stared back at him and asked, “When is it going to be? Tonight, do you think?”

“What do you mean, liebling?” he sounded too nervous as he spoke, but he curtailed that anxiety and tried his darndest to appear brave for his cousin.

Again, Gerhard only stared at him as if he couldn’t even recognize Erik. It was only after the gunshots and Uncle Hermann rushing past towards the twins' room that Gerhard latched himself at last to his older cousin. He was shivering so badly that Erik was afraid that if he held him too tightly that the boy might break.

Their grandfather called out to his mother next, instructing her to pack what was crucial and leave the rest. Uncle Hermann appeared back into the living room whilst carrying Klara. Johanna trailed behind them. She was trying to put on one sock back on her sister's foot. It had somehow shed itself off, and she kept saying Klara would get her foot dirty and that she’d be cold without it.

But the adults busied themselves with more pressing concerns. Uncle Hermann put down Klara for a moment so he could retrieve the documents he had spent some time forging weeks ago in anticipation for this very imminent danger.

“It's going to be tonight, isn’t it, Erik?” Gerhard mumbled softly as he withdrew from his cousin. With wide, unseeing eyes he added, “Papa always knew they would come for us.”

“What’s happening tonight?” Johanna dragged Klara through their linked hands as she now stared at her brother with a light scowl. “You’re scaring us again! Erik, tell Gerhard that this isn’t funny.”

Erik wanted to lie to the girls himself, but his mother had come between him and the children, ordering him in a hushed tone to help with the packing.

“Take only a few clothes for you, Gerhard and the twins,” she said while she frantically half-pushed him into the hallway, “And if you had any money saved from the chores and jobs you did back in summer, tuck it inside your undergarments and keep it safe!”

Their gazes lingered for one breathless moment. The way her eyes have gone red and puffy yet still clear with purpose made him want to rush to her and hold her close. But then she barked at him, “Go, Erik! We need to leave now or we never will!”

Back in the tunnels, the family of six sought refuge towards the other side of the sewer. Erik's cousins held onto him. The twins had their arms linked together around his waist on either side whilst Gerhard trailed behind with his palm pressed on the older boy’s back.

“Quietly now, lieblings,” his mother said while she held onto their grandfather’s hand the entire time as he led them. Navigating the dank narrow passage as polluted air kept threatening to make them cough and gag was no small feat, as Erik had to stay resolute in his footing too since he had the twins to guide and Gerhard still clutching on his back whom he has to make sure didn’t fall behind.

After what seemed like an hour when in reality it must have only been fifteen minutes, the family emerged together out of the tunnels. Erik had almost stopped breathing because of the smell earlier but once finally outside with the fresh air from the trees to help alleviate some of that stink, he exhaled and then breathed in gulps, chuckling in relief.

Gerhard and the twins were smiling now too, ever bright-eyed even as the fatigue was still apparent in the way their bodies moved. Soot and other undesirable blotches covered their faces and hands, but overall their appearance could have been way worse.

Their grandfather grinned and opened his arms towards Klara and Johanna now, who would have immediately jumped towards the chance when—from a short distance—a gun was fired.

The bullet hits Klara on her foot.

She screamed and held onto her sister who was the one nearest to her. Their grandfather used himself to shield the girls from further assault. Erik, meanwhile, ran towards his mother who shouted, “No! Gerhard!”

The bullets sliced harshly in the open air, booming as they splattered against soft tissue and marrow.

It was followed by his grandfather howling. The gutteral sound was almost that of a wounded old animal who had never felt more helpless until that moment.

Erik stopped on his tracks and sharply turned around to get to his cousin, but once he faced that direction he saw he was too late. The younger boy choked once, twice, as tears and spittle smeared across his cheeks and chin. His eyes went vacant, shoulders slack. Three bullet holes punctured his chest.

Blood poured out of Gerhard’s dusty shirt, red like nothing Erik had ever seen before.

_‘Papa always knew they would come after us.’_

Erik was only able to catch Gerhard in time before his body could fall. He held and shook him while stuck in a state of disbelief even as death stared back at him. But his cousin was still so warm, eyes open and ever so brown. _Why did I leave you behind? I should have made sure you were safe first._

“Her sock!” Johanna was sobbing out just a few feet away from Erik, “Opa, her sock is too dirty now! Why is it red?”

Klara wasn’t crying at all which prompted Erik to turn his head towards the direction of his relatives. Johanna had both her hands wrapped around her twin's foot. More blood gushed through the sock, staining her pale, tiny fingers. Meanwhile, their grandfather had shed his coat to wrap it around Klara who still wasn’t saying a word. She’s alive, Erik knew, but perhaps the pain was too immense that her mind refused to register it.

The younger twin had always been so meek. She hasn’t began speaking until last year too. It was only after their uncle took them to see the carnival one time that the mimes who worked there had caught Klara's attention. It was the mimes' muteness that perhaps triggered a reflex in the girl to try speaking at long last, just when everyone thought she truly did not posses the ability of speech.

She asked, “Are they sad like me, Onkel Hermie?”

Erik wondered now as he stared unblinkingly at the little girl if the reason for her own muteness before was because she had been sad.

_Will she ever be happy again after this?_

He tightened his hold on Gerhard and wept.

But then his mother rushed to pull Erik away from grasping onto his dead cousin, begging him to stand up. He had fought her off because he simply could not take the pain anymore and wanted to lay beside Gerhard.

_This wasn’t supposed to happen, it's not happening…we were all going to make it. That’s the plan._

Only after he heard the marching of boots and saw from the corner of his eye that two armed men had just grabbed his grandfather and tore him away from the girls did Erik snap out of it.

He didn’t know where his energy came from but in the next instant he hurled himself towards one of the men and clawed and bit in any portion of the bastard's arm he could reach.

 _Strong_ , he thought, _I have to be stronger than the rest—no matter how it hurts—for family._

“Stop! Don’t hurt the boy!” His grandfather punched the soldier before he could pull the gun on Erik and shoot. Two more men came forward and subdued them both until they had no choice but to surrender. The first thing Erik did was to scoop Johanna and Klara, but they were too heavy and his arms had grown too weak especially after one of the soldiers almost broke his left.

His grandfather rushed to take the girls instead whilst his mother reached out to embrace Erik from behind. Her tears soaked the top of his head as she whispered, “Don’t fight. It's done, Erik.”

Her fingers splayed across his chest, trembling yet holding onto his shirt as if she can find both strength and comfort in doing so.

A man walked over to examine them. Judging by his uniform and gait alone, he had to be the commander of this unit. There was nothing in his eyes at all as he told his men, “Take the woman and the boy back to the camps. But this old Jew—” his eyes traveled downwards to the twins next.

Without warning, Johanna kicked him on the shin. It made no real impact except to make the commander look briefly surprised before he just laughed it off, saying, “—and the whimpering Jewess curs will go to the pile like the rest.”

 _Pile?_ Erik's eyes widened in abject horror and fear as he glanced up to his mother, “Where are they taking opa and the girls, Mama?”

But she was addressing the commander instead. Erik would never forget this moment and how he could not bear the haunted look in his mother’s tear-stained eyes and the way her voice cracked as she begged the first of many monsters they would have to serve from that day forward.

“Please!” She stretched out an arm, her fingers clawing at air as she did, “My father-in-law is still strong. He can work like the other men! And my nieces…” If she wasn’t holding onto Erik, he could tell she would have collapsed already, “…please, _please_ , anything but _that_!”

“Count your blessings,” the man kept his hands behind his back. The formality of his stance was such a stark contrast to the cruelty spilling from his lips, “At least you have your boy. So hold him close,” His eyes then shifted to meet Erik’s, all while smiling the entire time, “...because goodbye would come sooner than you think...”

He turned away and gestured at the men who then took hold of Erik's grandfather and cousins so they can be dragged to a direction in the woods.

The commander kept walking as he remarked, “…especially to dirty, _dirty_ Jews.”

 

 

 

 

✦✸✧

 

Kurt Marko hasn’t even been buried for two hours when Sharon decided she needed to go to a casino out of the city and leave her two children with the maids. When she does things like this without any warning, Sharon doesn’t even say goodbye to Charles and would simply leave instructions for the help while she’s gone for God only knows how long this time.

Sharon did, however, visit her stepson to give him a kiss on the forehead and say, “Look after yourself. And Francis, of course. Make sure that boy doesn’t get into trouble. You know how he gets.”

 _Right_ , Charles was standing by the hallway when he heard this exchange, _as if I was the troublemaker to begin with._

His mother walked towards the direction where Charles was and for that, their eyes met briefly yet it lacked any kind of familiar warmth. Sharon merely pursed her lips and blinked. The boy knew it was still expected of him to be respectful so he muttered, “Have a safe trip, mother.”

“Thank you, Francis,” she returned the sentiment with the same polite coldness.

And just like that she was gone.

Charles had to give Cain some credit today. He didn’t bother him for the rest of the evening at all. Usually, his stepbrother would taunt him with comments regarding anything he deemed worth criticizing about the smaller boy. But perhaps he felt the need to respect his father's burial earlier by leaving Charles alone, at least for now.

Still, when Cain didn’t come down for dinner at all and refused to eat the food which was even brought to his own room, Charles knew that there must be something wrong.

Rationally, he knew that in spite of his stepbrother’s many flaws that Cain was just a young boy of twelve himself, and losing a parent in that age would hurt especially when you’re stuck with no one else inside this large estate, save the help, who frankly never cared about either children aside from making sure they stay alive long enough to get their pay checks from the Xavier matriarch.

Charles knew he might regret this, but against his better judgment, he decided to open a channel between himself and Cain. He was worried for the other boy. After all, who else would they have except each other in this parentless reality they share?

Slipping inside someone else's mind was truly a delicate process. Charles didn’t do it often because having other people aside from his family find out about it would be dangerous. When Sharon told Kurt and Cain about it two years ago, they at first thought it was a joke or a shared delusion between the widow and her sickly son. But then Sharon asked Charles to demonstrate his abilities to squash any reasonable doubt. Nothing had been the same since. Cain looked at him with fear and disgust and would get the other children from school to pick on Charles until no one else would talk to him, while Kurt…

He had convinced Sharon that her son needed ‘disciplinary reinforcement' to make sure that Charles will never misuse his ‘power’ on anyone. And so once every two weeks, Kurt would sit with Charles and ask him things to gauge the extent of his abilities. This included making the boy spy on the thoughts of certain people Kurt wanted information about without resorting to any other means.

It started harmless enough, and Charles actually began to look forward to these exercises. They gave him an opportunity to hone his telepathy which he believed for a long time was a burden and the one to blame for his mother’s neglect and antipathy. Kurt, for a time, provided Charles a means to escape the suffocating confines of the mansion and sift through the minds of others who live more fulfilling lives—who love and hurt and dream and aspire.

Through these strangers he discovered other things his sheltered upbringing had failed to teach him. In telepathy he found an anchor. It helped him live vicariously through people’s experiences; people he will never meet yet have nevertheless known intimately.

But three months into these exercises, Kurt had become greedy and overconfident that he could manipulate the boy into using his telepathy without Charles ever questioning his authority.

It all boiled over when a young woman working as a lab assistant in another nuclear facility owned by the Xaviers had the misfortune of catching Kurt Marko's attention.

No, Charles shouldn’t think about that anymore especially while he's focused on communicating with Cain at the moment.

All that mattered was that said woman is safe from any harm now that Kurt is dead. The young telepath has made sure of it.

But it was also that guilt which propelled Charles to try and comfort his stepbrother this instant. As carefully as he could, he melded minds with Cain and applied a soothing touch to quiet down the raging storms inside the other boy. Charles lay there on his own bed located a floor above his stepbrother’s and did his very best to console Cain even though it was the last thing that the boy deserved, given how much he and his father hurt Charles.

But the young telepath knew it was the right thing to do though. What use is having powers like he has if he can’t use them for the benefit of others? And so in an attempt to assuage his own guilt while aiding his stepbrother through the bereavement, Charles projected an image of a loving mother holding Cain close while in bed. This maternal figure was humming a lullaby and rubbing the other boy’s back as he wept into the pillow.

He wanted to tell Cain now more than ever how sorry he was that Kurt had died, but that he was also forgiven by now. And even if the older boy would beat him tomorrow or turn everyone else against him, Charles still wanted to let his stepbrother feel for just a moment that it was okay to be angry and scared like this—because the world just ended and someone you love is never coming back.

Tears stung Charles' own eyes when he realized the enormity of what he could do in having telepathy, and how strong his powers will only get for years to come. He was suddenly afraid of not doing the right things someday. It was possible that his own flawed humanity and weakness of spirit could just easily push him to walk a darker path unless he constantly kept himself in check. But what if he ceased to do that? What if he'll just snap one day just like he almost did earlier at the burial?

Slowly, he released the projection in Cain's mind once he was sure his stepbrother found repose and was presently slumbering in his room. Charles then wiped his tears and tried to get some sleep for himself, but the terror that had taken root in his heart hasn’t dissipated at all. It solidified into a mass and made a home inside the gaps of his own mind where no one else can reach or mend.

Thankfully, when morning came, the boy rose from his bed with a clearer sense of purpose. There was no sense dwelling in the bad when the future isn’t fixed, and Charles could still trust in himself and the goodness of everyone else to hope against the odds and even in the midst of many uncertainties.

 _I may not be strong all the time,_ he vowed to himself, _but I will always find a way, no matter how difficult, to be kind._

Charles Francis Xavier was five years old when his telepathy was awakened on the eve of his father's accident, and he had to listen to Sharon cry inside her head for weeks and pretend that his own grief is lesser next to hers, all for her sake.

And today, for the first time, he understood conclusively that he is not like the rest of the human race, and that neither Kurt nor Cain could beat the uniqueness out of him with their fists no matter how badly they want to correct the abnormality; his inherent ‘freakishness’.

This was freeing knowledge indeed, because Charles had figured out a lot of things along the way as well.

He figured out that someone out there could be just like him too—a group, a community, or a whole other world he has yet to explore, and that they’re all just waiting for him to find it.

Because the young telepath just knew—in an almost hungry, instinctive way—that he was _not alone_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _"We hug the world until it stings,_  
_We curse it then and sigh for wings._

 _We live, we love, we woo, we wed,_  
_We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead._

 _We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,_  
_And that’s the burden of the year."_

  
Ella Wheeler Wilcox

 


End file.
